


Bucky's Farewell

by NeighborhoodAlleyways



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, kinda anti-climatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeighborhoodAlleyways/pseuds/NeighborhoodAlleyways
Summary: A more in depth look at the first few scenes of The First Avenger from Bucky's perspective.





	Bucky's Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first toe dip in the waters of fic writing. I am an artist before I am a writer, so this is all a little new. I did pretty much no research for this story,(except for finding the movie script and using that basically as my dialogue. I take NO credit for it, that is all the work of MCU creators.) so I apologize for any inconsistencies. Also, I have no doubt there are grammar mistakes, so ditto apology for those. Please comment if you'd like, both positivity and constructive criticism really help me as a budding writer. Other than that, enjoy!

Where’s that fuckin punk, where could he be? I can’t walk any faster; my strides are wide and hurried. The shoulder and neck area of this new uniform feels too starched and constricting as I try to crane my neck to peer down every alleyway. The street bustle blocks quite a few of them, and some are so dark, I have to squint to make sure he’s not back there.  
He’s so small. I’m getting worried now, what was he doing this afternoon? Said he’d pop out for some fresh air, God knows he needs all he can get, but it’s been so long. He wasn’t there for my orders though and I’m grateful. It gave me some time to feel the heavy weight of this cap on my head and imagine him in it. I was so relieved I was staring at my own reflection in this dull brown. Better mine neck than his, no matter how suicidal he is.  
I pass the all the shops wondering where he could have gone with the amount of change I know he had in his pockets, when finally, I hear something. Its just one scuff of a shuffle in the next alleyway, but I jog in anticipation. The movie theatre, god, I am an idiot. If he’s not sneaking into conscription offices, moping around and sketching, then he’s sitting through cartoons for the war ads. Stupid, stupid, Bucky. I mentally chastise myself.  
There’s the back of a big fella’s jacket, no surprise, looming over him, and that idiot, blood already framing his mouth trying to stand up and hold his fists in the space between him and this jerk. I guess this makes him my idiot, I say closing the gap and suprising the asshole who’s back is turned to me.  
“Hey,” I shout catching his attention. This is the only time I will thank my lucky stars I’m wearing this terribly imposing uniform. Diverted, he quickly changes targets, but he’s still caught off guard. I dodge his punch easily and sock him in the jaw, nice and hard. It’s a rush to feel the impact of his teeth give under my knuckles. He stumbles toward the alley entrance, halfway running. Coward, I think shoving my boot at his backside making him stumble even more. “Go pick on someone your own size.” I yell after him, as he disappears in a flurry.  
I turn back to Steve, slumped in the corner, squinting up at me. Its times like this where he looks like a feral alley cat. A kitten maybe, but his eyes glint hard as steal. He’s stringy and small, with his blonde hair all rustled, tarnished looking, but he knows when to accept defeat and grasps my offered hand.  
“Sometimes I think you like getting punched.” I say, exhausted enough by his antics to the point of amusement. He’s still trying to catch his breath, and knowing his lunatic ideas about who he can take in a fight, his gasps come from loss of oxygen supply to the brain. I force myself not to grab his shoulder and make sure his eyes tell me he’s okay. Maybe he’s just an idiot. I think a little bit of both.  
“I had him on the ropes.” His sarcasm is always charming. That is, until I spot the card on the ground and know he’s gone and tried again. I swipe it from the dirty muck, asking,  
“How many tries is this?” I’m annoyed by the amount of times he’s slipped past me with these attempts. “Oh, your from Paramus now? Jersey, I’ve told you before, it’s illegal to lie on these things. Imagine you in jail.” He’s stubborn, I will give him that, but I feel so much more relieved this way. I sigh when I see the stamp of rejection. Sometimes he’s gets so frail I fear I could break him in two. Finally, he takes his hands off his knees and gets a good look at me.  
“You get your orders?” he asks, as if its not obvious. I wonder what he thinks of the uniform. I can feel the light tilt forward of my cap on my head and confidently assume I look very dashing. That’s not what he’ll care about though, only the dames. But no matter the appeal, this is a uniform you are more likely then not to be caught dead in. So I clench my jaw before I say it.  
“107th. Sargent James Buchanan Barnes. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.” I let my eyes skim lazy and self-assured over him.  
“I should be going.” He says, and I can’t let him see the quake that runs through me, even though it might be good for him. I don’t know why. The only thought scarier than me leaving him is him coming with me. He’s gonna be alone. How is he going to survive, how am I? Even now, this might be the last time I can look at him, look after him when he gets into trouble. How bloody and bruised will he be next time? Will I be intact enough to do this when I come back? That is, if…if….I shove these thoughts off, give him my best smile and pull him close. My elbow hooks his neck and our heads almost crash, but I am invigorated by it. “C’mon, man. It’s my last night! Gotta get you cleaned up.”  
“Why? Where are we going?” he looks up at me, confused. Innocent Stevie, he should know better by now how much I love a night out on the town. I hand him the newspaper, tugging him along outside the alleyway into the Brooklyn bustle.  
“The future.”  
He stares down at the headline splattered with Howard Stark’s name, silent after my dramatic comment. I thought the expo would be a perfect final hoorah, and an interesting date, a chance I’d never pass up, especially not now. I needed a night to not think, but I need Steve to buy it too.  
“Sounds pretty neat.” He says, raising his eyebrow, with vague interest in his voice. He glances up at me, trying to smile, and says, “Knowing you, you’re gonna work in a date too, aren’t you?”  
“You know me too well.” I know how it is over there. This is supposed to be my last chance. There won’t be any doe eyed girls with red lipstick to smudge in the army, nothing to keep the feverish fantasies at bay. No carefree fun. That’s a commodity for me now. And who knows, dare I say it, I could be a man walking to my grave. Steve would expect nothing less, a night on the town with a pretty girl until dawn. A part of me tugs to just stay in, stay in with just him, but I don’t want him to start getting worried about me, getting scared. I know he will come with me, and that’s enough. “I got you a date too.” It’s not bait so much as making him feel obligated.  
“You didn’t have to.”  
“Steve, I want you to come out tonight. What are you going to do without me to set you up on dates?”  
“I don’t know, Buck. Girls have never been that interested in me. All I care about right now is helping the war.” I grow exasperated.  
“The war can wait! Sure, you’re no ladies man, but plenty of girls have liked you.” I scratch the distant memories of our nights out, hoping to find some good evidence to back me up. And this is what hurts, because I remember Steve watching by the bar, as I twirl dames on the dance floor, all flirty smiles and soft curves of dress, as I take them giggling to more private corners and kiss them, feeling them open their petals for me at a touch. Its easy, so easy, that game of catch. And then there’s Steve, alone, there only for me, because of me. I see him standing at the bar, he’s not even really waiting because he knows there’s nothing to wait for. They’ll never come to him, and he doesn’t mind it that way. His golden hair’s catching the light like he’s the fucking sun, but the world moves on around him. He’s an untouched island. It hurts that he doesn’t care, because it would be so easy for me to just give it up, to stop with the girls too and just live for him. The girls are always nice, but Steve is nicer. But I can’t, he’s got a future that I don’t, and some dame is out there waiting for him. I want him to be happy and alive and in love, not a stupid bastard like me. So it hurts, but I push, saying, “Linda was pretty swell, right? And there was Patricia, too, that girl we met at the bar, she definitely liked you.”  
He laughs. “Linda though I was okay until some guy borrowed her for a dance and she never came back. And Patricia? Bucky, that’s a joke, she was so drunk she woulda kissed a frog.” He shakes his head. He’s not even self-concious, just smirks at me.  
“Still,” I say, “You know my memory’s shit, there’s gotta be more I’m forgetting. I know you’re shy, but those girls don’t know what there missing.”  
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” he says, cheekily.  
“Shut it Rogers.”

 

We continue to bicker and banter even back in the apartment as we get dressed, as I tighten the tie against Steve’s clean neck, as I watch him tie his shoes from the mirror where I refresh my gelled hair. The banter about girls is familiar, so I’m used to how quiet he gets. It’s not much of a difference, but I still notice it. There’s a worn detachment that frames his face as he concentrates on doing the buttons of his shirt in the soft evening glow.  
“I don’t see what the problem is. You’re about to be the last eligible man in New York. You know, there’s three and a half million woman here.” The bickering hasn’t stopped even when we get to the fair grounds. I keep pushing him, because I can.  
“Well, I’d settle for just one.” He replies, head low, staring at his feet. And this is what makes Steve so perfect, and such a hassle for me to deal with. I can’t reign in my admiration. He’s so quiet, more of a gentleman than I will ever be, with his heart of gold. I’m only a gentleman under false pretenses, only if gentlemen are allowed to flirt raunchily with any girl walking by. Those goody two shoes are going to get him in trouble one day. I just wish he’d hurry up and go steady with a girl, then maybe I could stop kidding myself with wanting and wishing.  
“Good thing I took care of that!” I say, spotting our two dates huddled together. They spot me too.  
“Hey Bucky!” my date, Connie, calls with a energetic and confident wave.  
“What did you tell her about me?” Steve says, suddenly shifting towards slight nervousness. Only my long years of friendship with him allow me to sense it underneath his neutral demeanor. It’s the way he looked back when underneath our linen and sheet forts, we would exchange childish fears and secrets. He’s too cute; his big puppy dog eyes have done this too many times before.  
“Only the good stuff.” I reassure him. I can’t think about that now. I have a pretty date, I have a pretty date.  
And pretty she is. Chocolate curls, a softly curved face, dimples and flirty eyes. I saunter up and all long lashed gazes are on me. Steve’s date doesn’t even care that he’s there, but frankly, I don’t think Steve does either. We set off walking, my strut falling between the two girls in a comfortable swagger, Steve just where I like him. He’s next to his date, a little in front so I can sneak glances easily. But then the surroundings catch my eye, and I remember I’m at a fair, a place of wonder and excitement. The crowds are thick, swarming around different booths and expositions of scientific inventions. The creators show off in dramatic flourishes, and it looks to me more like a gathering of magicians showcasing tricks than true science. I drink in the sights and sounds around us, enveloped in a gold firework show. The announcements blare, “-the Modern Marvels pavilion and the World of Tomorrow. A greater world. A better-“  
…passing through my ears as we walk. Finally, an extravagant red curtained stage comes into view. The announcer’s voice grows more energetic. Connie vibrates at my side, freaking out.  
“Oh my god! It’s starting!” She whisks her friend forward, and I almost let their current take me. I want to get lost in the crowd with these two girls, eat like a king of their offered infatuation, live wild and admired. I know they love the uniform. But I linger back for Steve. He’s my lifeline. He keeps me from going off the edge. Without him, I’d be some wild, loose moraled thing, a dust storm vagabond leaving havoc in my path. But he’s a paradox in my mind, driving my insanity too.  
Stop thinking, I tell myself, knowing my mind only loops in circles. I focus on the stage from between the girls’ hair, at a tiny Mr. Stark on display for the whole world.  
I won’t lie, when the car lifts of the ground, sleek as its design, “Holy cow.” pops out of my mouth. A collective, marveled gasp ensues as everyone holds their breath at this unreal. So when it crashes down not a few seconds later, the whole crowd collectively spasms. It’s a rancorous uproar, easy to get caught up in. Nobody’s sure what they just saw. Stark cleverly dazzles us back with his witty mouth, making us all enthusiastically applaud him. This is entertainment, and boy, is it doing its job. We just witnessed something straight out of superhero comics. I guess that makes it history too. Not a bad start to this date. The girls turn to me and I can feel the buzz of the crowd’s energy.  
“Hey Steve,” I turn, “what do you say we treat the girls…” and its almost unsurprising that he is gone. For a brief moment, I forgot he existed. Damn it. Screw what I said earlier, his heart isn’t made of gold, it’s a radar for trouble. And things that will set me off. I take off, atune only to my thorough scan of the crowd. Where, where, where…. After a few tense seconds, my vision clears and it looms before me, too obvious.  
The army is desperate enough to set up a conscription office in the middle of a fucking fair? Well, Steve is here, and he always seems to find them. There must be one forever along his path, the only testament to his crazy, suicidal wish being heard.  
I find him standing up to the shadow of a solider, which makes him seem comically short. I thump my palm against his shoulder, gripping him firm.  
“Come on.” I tell him, noting his surprise morph into familiarity. “You’re kind of missing the point of a double date. We’re taking the girls dancing.” Not that he cares, or I do. I want to dance, but this date is somewhat a bust for more than one of us tonight. I was trying so hard to keep the seams together for one last night, to have Steve’s banter as company, and some girls’ hands and feet and lips as partners, and some music to drown anything else out, except the adrenaline. But Steve’s mind, like mine, is elsewhere. Guess the war is gonna ruin this too.  
“You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you.” He’s reserved, and the fact that he’s not looking at me tells me guilt’s tugging at him.  
“You’re really gonna do this again?” I say, and I can’t hide the exasperation from my voice. His eyes dart up to mine.  
“Well, it’s a fair. I’m gonna try my luck.” Nice try, but you can’t joke your way out of this, I think.  
“As who? Steve from Ohio? They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.” I call his bullshit, anger scratching at the surface of my skin. His expression hardens, and I sorta regret my words. Shit. I make him sound weak, useless.  
“You know what I mean, Steve.” I say, with regressive gravel. But it doesn’t work the way I want it to. I haven’t hurt him, I’ve only strengthened his resolve.  
“I know you don’t think I can do this.” He sighs, and damn if he’s not right. I am scared for him. I’ve tried and told him a thousand times, pounding through the thick golden plating of his heart. He’s not too weak, he’s too strong.  
“This isn’t a back alley Steve. It’s war. You could die.”  
“I know, you don’t have to tell me.” Except I do, because you are so keen to try and jeopardize your life for noble things that wont mean shit if you’re dead. I’m grasping at the straws, silent, because I don’t want to give it away. This must be the reason the girls stay in the States, to ground those boys flung into death overseas. Love must be a soldier’s will, the candle that keeps them between dying and dead. Proof that their sacrifice is worth it, proof to keep them fighting. Can’t he see he’s my proof? Maybe its better he doesn’t.  
“Why are you so keen to fight, there are so many important jobs.” A stupid, useless statement. I make it anyway. He looks at me flintily, ready to catch fire.  
“What am I going to do? Collect scrap metal?”  
“Yes!”  
“…in my little red wagon?” His body doesn’t fit his face, especially now, with his expression hard in cold indignation. His skinny frame fits the form of a fourteen year old boy, perfect for picking scrap. But his eyes hold gravity of someone older, learned in the ways the world work, the expectations. I wish he’d be content letting his sizeable hands elegantly paint war posters. His healthy voice, deep enough to call through the streets, could advertise war bonds. But that’s not enough for Steve.  
“Why not?”  
“I’m not going to sit in a factory Bucky.” I know you’re not, but would you if you did it for me? For my sorry ass? No, he only gets more rigid as we stand here and argue.  
“I don’t…” I try, but it’s too late. He bursts.  
“Bucky come on! There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.” He’s not irrevocably angry, even though his frustrated voice chafes against my ears. Our insecurities have grappled before, but his stubborn anger makes the likeness of him that much sharper.  
“Right. Cause you have nothing to prove.” My sarcasm comes from a deep place. He doesn’t have anything to prove, not to me. But Steve never cared much for my opinion on his worth. Blame it on friendly bias I guess.  
In two seconds it doesn’t matter, because a familiar female voice from behind me calls out,  
“Hey Sarge! Are we going dancing?” The girls have found us. Now they are waiting expectantly. I switch on my swagger and smirk, turning to them,  
“Yes we are, ”  
…and then unmasking back at Steve. “Are you sure you won’t come with us? You’ve got all the time in the world.” It’s a plead, but it passes over his head.  
“I have to do this.” He says it the way he would cough quietly and then brush it off in all the times sickness struck his body, the way he puffed out his chest when requesting to play during our alley games of football, the way his hands create the lines in his drawings. Determined. I give up trying him with my last jokingly serious request,  
“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.” It’s asking for forgiveness, hidden in plain sight.  
“How can I? You’re takin’ all the stupid with you.” He smiles, smirks really, and I know we are okay.  
“You’re a punk.”  
“Jerk. Be careful.” I’m touched by the way he says it, as I pull him into my arms for a quick embrace. I catch my last glimpse of the strokes in his face, heading down the stairs, down to the girls.  
“It’s me we are takin’ about, I’ll be fine.” I reassure him. “You don’t get into too many fist fights while I’m gone.”  
“I wont, as long as you don’t win the war ‘til I get there.” And I can’t say anything to that, thinking, I can’t promise you something I don’t mean. So I turn and so does he, and we walk in two different directions.  
“Come on girls.” I say. 

 

The girls don’t seem to mind sharing me. The stomp of feet combined with trading their glee filled faces, smooth, delicate hands, and skirts, which brush my pants, all leave my brain rushing. The music is so deafening its muted. I’m exhausted in the wee hours of the morning when the adrenaline keeps me walking, blissfully sweat-caked, home. I collapse into a restless sleep, waiting for dawn. Thoughts come of mama and pa, scared yet proud, of Rebecca, and the way Connie kissed my neck, and my firecracker Steve, until the morning concludes I think too much.  
But I am still thinkin’ as I grip the railings of the ship and catch the last stunning glimpse of those New York buildings. It’s getting hot, and I feel like dozing or retching, with reality so precise and sharp. This is my goodbye. Even if it’s not the last time, it feels like it. The buildings feel old and far away already, as if I’m looking into the past. Maybe I am. Its no longer just me and him, two Brooklyn kids on the wide maze of alleyways we made our home. The world is so much bigger now, and I’m about to witness it, take part in it first hand. Each new day offers a death sentence to the previous. So, I raise the tips of my fingers, and press them to my lips, as if they were his cheek. The moment holds, and then I lower my hand, as if I’m taking a drag, as if I’m blowing a kiss.


End file.
